


Playing By Rules

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-26
Updated: 2011-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 07:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty wants something more from Sherlock. John is made to tell him what, precisely, that is. (Originally written for the 221B fic exchange, with a request for non-con.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing By Rules

Sherlock squinted against the sudden, harsh light, and inventoried his immediate physical sensations. Pain in the back and right shoulder, as if from an unbroken fall, the taste of copper—a split lip, he prodded it with the tip of his tongue to measure the swelling and possibility of scarring—a headache that manifested as a stabbing pain right into the vitreous humor of his eyes. He was still a few beats away from full consciousness, but his surroundings bled into slow focus: he was on a bed in a bright room, opulently appointed, but generic. An expensive hotel.

He stepped backward in his mind, trying to trace an unbroken line of events from the morning, but he found a segment of time alarmingly, disconcertingly missing. A wave of nausea: side effect of a sedative. So was the memory loss. It was an explanation for the symptoms, at least, if not the greater cause.

“Welcome back!” someone trilled, and Sherlock clamped his eyes shut again, the offending noise too much to process along with the throbbing pain and the way his inner ear pitched and rebelled against gravity, raising a faint taste of bile to mingle in the back of his throat with the unpleasant taste of blood.

When he blinked his eyes open again, he saw John slumped in a heavy wooden chair to his left, his head bobbling awkwardly as he tried to pull himself up from his slouched position.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock mumbled, testing a tongue that felt thick and foreign against his own teeth.

“You remembered!” came the reply. In his foggy state, Sherlock seemed to experience the words less as sound and more as something oozing down the walls, flooding his ear canal. He twitched against the invasion.

A face came into view, pale and too close, with the skin stretched tight in a lurid smile. “Buuuuut, I _told_ you to come alone. The invitation was quite specific. You know how I get when you don’t play by the rules.”

“He did come alone. I followed him.”

Sherlock could not remember if this were true or not, but he doubted John could have followed him anywhere without Sherlock noticing. “Shut up, John,” he said reflexively.

Moriarty’s eyes went wide. “Do I detect some domestic unrest in paradise?”

“What d’you want?” Sherlock slurred the words, though, thankfully, the first wave of nausea was beginning to subside.

Moriarty laughed. “Surely you didn’t think I just walked out of that pool, never to be seen again? _I wasn’t done playing!_ ”

“Fine,” Sherlock managed. “I’m here now. What game do you want to play this time?” He shifted against the pillows as much to ascertain his own weakness as to get a better view of his surroundings. His limbs felt disconnected, as if brain were still not entirely sure where his body ended and the crimson duvet began, and his arm shook violently when he tried to prop himself up on one elbow. Abandoning the venture, he sank back into the bed, rattled and disconcerted, but aware enough to quiet his brain when it tried to calculate the likely length of his incapacitation. However long it was, it would be long enough. Moriarty had seen to that, he was certain.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John shift and register that his hands were cuffed to the arms of his chair. The hazy appearance of his face belied the panic Sherlock knew was brewing just beneath the surface.

“Leave him alone,” John said, voice as weak as Sherlock’s. “Whatever you want, use me instead.”

“Noble, but I didn’t invite Sherlock over so I could play fetch with his devoted Alsatian,” Moriarty sneered. “You shouldn’t even be here. This is _our special day._ ”

Moriarty circled around to the edge of the bed, crawling over Sherlock’s body. His head drew back involuntarily, but his position prevented much retreat; he closed his eyes, hot breath skimming over his cheek as Moriarty dragged his tongue across Sherlock’s bloody lip and purred a note of appreciation.

“And you should know that if your little friend decides to get bold, I brought some other toys to play with, as well,” Moriarty said, almost giddy, pulling back his jacket and revealing the sinister outline of a gun tucked into his waistband. “But they make a bit of a mess. I’d rather not play with them today.”

Sherlock knew that John held no interest for Moriarty, expect, perhaps, as an object of _Sherlock’s_ singular interest, a potential, if unexpected, accessory to his chosen method of torment. And he also knew that that was not nearly enough to keep John alive. Sherlock was the thing of value; John was expendable. Moriarty—mercurial, maniacal Moriarty—would have no qualms about dispatching him for convenience, or irritation, or no reason at all. Sherlock knew better than to test Moriarty’s boundaries when it would be such an easy thing, such a little trifle, for Moriarty to put a bullet through John’s heart just to watch Sherlock’s reaction. That he was not dead yet suggested that Moriarty’s own rules, if followed, would keep him alive. Sherlock intended to abide by them.

And so when John made another noise of protest, Sherlock ordered him to stay still, do nothing. John bit his lip, but was obedient.

“Oh, Sherlock, that would be _rude_ ,” Moriarty’s face went serious, adopting the air of a chastising schoolteacher. “He went to all the trouble of coming, so he ought to be allowed to participate, don’t you think?”

“Whatever is between us is between us. Leave John out of it.”

“Oh, it is between us. It always has been, hasn’t it?” He shifted, lowering his body until his cock pressed into Sherlock’s thigh. “But I take direction well.”

When Sherlock did nothing but fist the duvet and turn away, Moriarty glared. “Ask him what he wants to do to you, and don’t let him lie. I’ll know.”

“John, what do you want to do to me?”

“Sherlock, this is mad!”

Sherlock repeated the question more forcefully. “I know you’ve thought about it. Tell me. _Now_.”

John swallowed hard, tugging at the handcuffs until they bit into his wrists and threatened blood. “I—I want to kiss you.”

“Well, that’s a start!” Moriarty said, all theatrics. “But I think we all know he wants to do a _little_ more than that.”

Moriarty’s lips descended on Sherlock, hot and demanding as they worked their way along his jawline and down his neck. When a moment passed and no one spoke, he bit down, sinking his teeth into strained muscle until Sherlock yelped in pain.

“You have to keep talking, John. Until it’s over. That’s… the game.” Sherlock was a quick study. He knew enough to know the first transgression earned merely a warning of more serious consequences.

John swallowed a moan that clung to his throat and gripped the arms of the chair, fingernails digging into wood. “I want to pull your clothes off. Your shirt—I want to unbutton it, touch your chest.”

Moriarty’s mouth stayed on Sherlock’s neck, smoothing the angry flesh with his tongue as nimble fingers moved to pop buttons from their holes. When the shirt fell open, he turned his attention to the new expanse of pale skin, chest heaving with shallow, labored breaths. He danced his fingertips over Sherlock’s ribs, made salient with every inhalation, then slid his body down, straddling Sherlock’s legs and tracing a path down his torso with the tip of his tongue.

When the assailant slowed, mouth poised just above Sherlock’s abdomen, John released a shaky sigh. He knew this was nowhere near enough. “I want to take you in my mouth.” He focused on each word, trying to divorce it from its meaning. “Suck your cock until you come.”

Insistent hands tugged at Sherlock’s trousers, pulling them down his hips and exposing his shaft, soft against his thigh.

“John, please,” Sherlock said, nearly begging. “That’s not enough.”

For a moment, John didn’t understand. When realization struck, he whimpered, “I can’t.”

“Please—“ he repeated, clenching his eyes shut. “I need your voice.”

“I would—“ John felt sick; he stopped for just a moment to still the angry current in his stomach and focus. “I would touch you, one hand on your balls—but gently, just firm enough to feel good. I’d run my tongue up the underside of your cock, willing you to get hard for me.”

Sherlock felt a phantom hand put the words into action, fondling his testicles before a wet tongue made his cock jump and squeezed a gasp from his lungs. His fingers worried the fabric of the sheet beneath him as he tried to focus on the sound of John’s voice, conjuring an image of his fair head between Sherlock’s legs, eager mouth slack and ready.

“I’d wrap my hand around the base of your cock, squeeze just a little and—and work it up and down—”

Sherlock felt himself go half-hard under the onslaught of Moriarty’s mouth and the way John’s voice— _John’s voice_ —tripped over words and half-realized desires that had long burned in the back of Sherlock’s mind.

“Then I’d take you in my mouth,” John said. “Run my tongue over the slit, it’s—it’s so sensitive, I’d want to see if it would make you moan—“

Sherlock gasped; John had been watching his face intently, the way his head tipped back and his mouth hung open, panting. He tried to forget that it wasn’t his mouth on Sherlock, that it wasn’t him teasing those noises from that pale throat, if only for a fleeting moment, but it made the roiling feeling in his stomach reassert itself as a sickening jolt of guilt.

 

“Oh, God, Sherlock,” he said. He couldn’t help it.

Sherlock turned his face to look at John, watery eyes rimmed red. He was dimly aware of Moriarty’s demanding mouth and hands quickening their pace, but the unrelenting assault was fuzzy around the edges when John’s face was all he could see.

“John,” he said simply, and unraveled.

Moriarty anticipated the climax and pulled Sherlock’s cock from his mouth to watch his reward spill thick and warm on Sherlock’s stomach. He admired it for a minute before turning to John and grinning.

“Well, _that_ was certainly worth the effort! But I don’t think that’s _all_ you want to do to him, now is it? You aren’t that selfless.”

“ _No, I don’t, not that_ —”

“You really are a terrible liar.” Moriarty turned to Sherlock, as if seeking confirmation. Sherlock’s eyes remained fixed on the wall just to the right of John, his face impassive.

When John did not reply beyond pulling at his handcuffs so forcefully that the chair threatened to topple, Moriarty moved for his gun.

“Wait!” John said, louder than necessary. “I do. Want to.” Sweat had soaked his collar and made his shirt feel uncomfortably tight. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry.”

“Do want to _what?_ ”

“Fuck Sherlock.” He felt nauseated.

“ _That’s_ more like it. Go on,” Moriarty said cheerily.

John scrambled. He wouldn’t violate Sherlock—sensitive, sexually naïve Sherlock—like this, would he? Dry and unprepared and painful. God, it would be so painful— John would have to prolong it, just long enough to take the edge off the unimaginable pain.

“I know you haven’t before—“ John said, the words spilling out of him. “That’s why I haven’t tried.” He was panting, and the tears stung, but he blinked them back. And it was true—he knew Sherlock’s sexual experiences were limited, even more limited than his understanding of irrational romantic behavior, and so John had carefully restrained himself. He had let Sherlock dictate the pace without him even realizing. They hadn’t kissed. John hadn’t even confessed yet, laid it out plainly that he loved Sherlock and would wait, however long it took. He didn’t think it fair. But now—

“But I’ve thought about it. I want to.” He wouldn’t say the rest. He wouldn’t give Moriarty the satisfaction.

Sherlock regarded John, out of genuine interest as much as a distraction from the way his skin prickled just under the surface, a filthy, sickening feeling, the way his mind wanted to punish his body for its betrayal, written in cooling come on his own stomach.

“Keep talking,” Sherlock said. “Tell me how you’d do it.”

Sherlock’s steady voice steeled him. “I’d prepare you. Too much friction—it hurts. So I’d lick my fingers. Press one in.”

Moriarty followed the instructions. The first penetration made Sherlock’s back arch.

“I’d test it, slowly work it around until you could accommodate two, then three. Remember—relax. You have to relax.” John almost pleaded.

Distantly, John could see Moriarty plying Sherlock, hand working rhythmically inside him, Sherlock moaning with each pass over his prostate.

“John, please, I’m ready—“

John understood; he wanted it over. They both did. “Then I’d slick myself with your come, press into you.” He shut his eyes again as he said the words and authorized the final defiling.

“John, stay with me,” Sherlock said, his voice small. John forced himself to look, give Sherlock a focal point.

Sherlock keened when Moriarty replaced his fingers with his prick; Moriarty moaned warmly. “You should feel this, John. It’s fucking _fantastic_. No pun intended.” He canted his hips until Sherlock gasped again, and pumped into him recklessly until Sherlock’s legs trembled.

To Sherlock’s relief, it didn’t last long. Moriarty was ruthless, lust-addled from his perceived victory, and within moments he was bent over his body, spending himself with a deep, almost plaintive noise.

When finished, he pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead in a pantomime of tenderness. “Next time you’ll think of me, won’t you darling?” He slipped backward off Sherlock’s body and righted his still-immaculate clothing. He produced from his pocket a little silver key and unlocked one of the handcuffs pinning John to the chair. With one hand poised in ominous reminder over his gun, he tossed the key in John’s lap, with an order to count to twenty before unlocking himself, then said something else John didn’t quite register, something about a delightful evening, and left.

With shaking fingers he freed himself and collapsed out of the chair. The remains of the sedative hit him as he stood on faltering legs and wobbled to the edge of the bed. John clung to the mattress, one hand moving to brush sweat-soaked hair from Sherlock’s eyes.

“Don’t cry, please,” Sherlock said.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s—“ his voice trailed off when he couldn’t bring himself to repeat the words, but his hand found John’s. “It’s over now.”


End file.
